


A Kiss Through a Veil

by Kaorusan241



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, England (Country), Historical, M/M, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 08:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17721764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaorusan241/pseuds/Kaorusan241
Summary: Lance, the son of a tradesman, often writes about his life in a private journal. When he first sees Keith, rebellious adopted heir to one of the wealthiest banking families in Europe, the feelings he keeps so close to his chest threaten to unravel. 19th Century AU.





	A Kiss Through a Veil

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short something I wrote after visiting Dennis Severs' house in Spitalfields.
> 
> \---

**_A Note._ **

 

Since my career as a writer has yet to take off, and no one else is ever likely to read this journal, we'll try something new here. "Dear Diary" doesn't quite have the dramatic flair suitable to capture my day-to-day shenanigans. So, here we have an outlet for my 'unholy inclinations', inclinations that could quite easily ruin me if this book was ever discovered.....

                                   "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."

\- A cute line from a favourite novel, but not quite on the mark. It is a truth _hardly ever_ acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, might just want another man.

 

Yours,

𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔐𝔠ℭ𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔫.

 

* * *

 

_**London - Friday October 8th. 1847.** _

 

“Had we been formally introduced before this evening, Mr. McClain?”

I blink, casting my attention back to the woman seated on my left. She’d seemed rather lovely at first glance, golden hair tangled into an elegant sort of chignon at the nape of her neck, cheeks warmed a dusty shade of pink from the mulled wine.

She was at least lovely enough for me, being the total rake that I am, to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. How else was I supposed to wangle myself a box seat for Bellini's La Sonnambula in Covent Garden?

I know she’s trying to be coy, eyelashes fluttering in what’s supposed to be an amusing parody of Jenny Lind, but I can’t seem to focus on her face. I can’t seem to focus on anything, really, hardly even her name, but I’m fairly certain asking her for it this late in the game would earn me a firm slap to the face.

"I suppose that's possible." I mumble, flashing her a quick smile.

I can’t risk being kicked out of the box, no matter how stifled I feel by the intrusive, plush red velvet encroaching on all my senses, crammed onto a sweaty seat with a few oversized pillows, strategically placed in-between myself and... Adelia? Anne?

Retreating to the gambling area a few floors below me seems like a bright idea, but there’s someone sitting in the row opposite that has me rooted in place.

To clarify - this isn’t an illegitimate theatre. I’m usually quite good at keeping any unsavoury urges to myself, within reason. A hand up a girl’s skirt at one of my father’s parties might end in a brief scolding, but I’m not stupid enough to publicly flaunt my equal fondness for boys.

That’s something I keep to the dead of night usually, during whisky-driven romps with militiamen along the sodomite’s walk off Finsbury Square, or in one of the dimly-lit corners of Green Park. The strict shackles I keep on my feelings for the rougher sex aren’t usually loosened in polite society, but today I find myself staring openly at this man all the same, imagining us together in all sorts of debauched scenarios.

He’s gorgeous. Long, black hair curling almost past his shoulders, and a furrowed brow giving him the look of an angry wolf. A well-tailored black suit partially obscures his waistcoat, which is a deep red silk and inlaid with all sorts of interesting patterns that I ache to touch.

I can’t help it. My imagination is running wild. He must be a Byronic hero, with a jawline like that. He’s clearly proud, cynical, with a tragic backstory probably not dissimilar to Heathcliff, my sister Sophia’s current literary obsession. There’s a touch of the exotic about him too, it’s difficult to tell from a distance, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we had both been born overseas.

It’s just as I’m hoping that adoption isn’t the only unorthodox thing we have in common, that he chooses to look up. Immediately his gaze meets mine, and I’m transfixed. I can see now that his eyes are pitch, no colour or warmth in them at all, and locked firmly on my face. I feel myself flush red at the attention, swiftly returning to the lady I’m supposed to be talking to.

“.... Lance?” She says, pouting.

“Yes, sorry.” I shift in my seat. “You look wonderful tonight, by the way. Do you know much opera?”

Clearly charmed, she continues on, and I breathe an internal sigh of relief as I tune her out again.

I’m not keen to offend this woman, but I do want our conversation to be as brief as possible. Any appeal she might have had when I first walked past the theatre, has been swept away in the dark seas of that gentleman’s eyes, disorientating beneath a starless sky.

 

* * *

 

_**London - Monday October 11th. 1847.** _

 

Heathcliff is thrown back into my path quicker than I’d expected, although I’m less happy to see him the second time. I’ll call him Heathcliff for now, although secretly I’m hoping for more of a Fitzwilliam Darcy type character, god knows my family could use a few more wealthy friends in high places.

Following my trip across Venice, Barcelona, Paris, all of the usual hotspots for an “uncultured” young man, my father announced that I would be sent to Kings to study medicine.

Saying that I am unhappy about this arrangement would be a huge understatement. Aside from a few useful bits and pieces - turpentine for toothaches and blood-letting to maintain health in case of illness - medicine is not one of my interests.

It seems a sick sort of irony that someone like me, who has been carted off to hospital more times than I can count, should end up on the other side of a surgeon's table. _Me,_ forced to deal with syphilis or gangrene or who knows what else, as the follies of the past catch up to weak-willed men. My father definitely seemed to find it funny.

None of that matters right now though, because I’m standing in the joint study-bedroom setup afforded to students of the college, and there’s a man already sitting in my armchair.

“Can I help you?” He asks, clearly unimpressed.

His voice is unexpectedly gravelly, and I try not to let my eyes widen too obviously.

Of _course_ the culprit would be the same man I spent an hour and a half obsessing over last week. My sisters had told me to skip a night out in favour of studying, given how little time I had left to prepare for the new term, and I’m starting to think I should have listened.

“I’m sorry, but there must be some kind of mistake.” I hardly recognise the sound of my own voice, it’s so uncharacteristically cautious. “These are my allocated rooms.”

I make a tentative sort of gesture towards the papers I’m holding, but Heathcliff remains unmoved.

He hasn’t even looked up yet, but now he puts down his newspaper and rises to his feet. I have to fight down the urge to take a step back.

“There is no mistake, to get one thing clear,” Heathcliff grits out.

(If he recognises me at all from the opera that night, there is no indication of it in his expression. The bastard.)

“I will be staying in this apartment for the next two weeks, or until they can sort out whatever... mixup has gone down at registry.” He scowls. “You breathe a word of our current arrangement, to _anyone_ , and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

There’s a shocked pause, which he takes as an invitation to sit back down.

No _bloody_ way.


End file.
